


Walking in Our Own Wonderland

by Hyla



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas fic, Fluff, Getting Together, Grantaire puts the bottle down, Happy holidays guys, M/M, Some angst, except it's Saturnalia, these boys have a lot of feelings, this is my gift to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyla/pseuds/Hyla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you say, dear leader, that we make a holiday of our own?” </p><p>Or: Grantaire never liked the holiday season, and apparently neither did Enjolras. A really great idea gives Enjolras and Grantaire the chance to set things right between them. The road through wonderland promises a better life, if the boys are willing to walk it together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking in Our Own Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Mis-mas everybody! I'd like to preface this by saying that I have never posted before and I don't really know how it works?? Complete fic virgin here. Suggestions would be really great. I'm an active lurker on tumblr under the username hysteia, if you wanna say hi.
> 
> Update 8/26/2017: god if someone finds this after reading my new stuff......im so sorryh

It was the seventeenth of December, and the spirit of festivities was sweeping across Paris. As in any major city during the holidays, there were swaths of people flooding to and from the airport, loaded with bits and pieces of their lives, stuffed away in their luggage. Grantaire scoffed at the notion of becoming one of these frenzied faces, partly for the stress of travel, and partly because he had no family to come home to. Grantaire cut himself loose as he turned eighteen and never looked back to that unhappy childhood. The drinking was an unfortunate token of this early life that he’d much rather leave behind but found the process more trouble than it was worth.

He sighed, uncrossing, and then recrossing his legs, which dangled high from the bar stool. The counter dug into his back as he reclined, but looking at the merry throng filling the Musain kept him distracted from logical, decidedly unsavory thoughts, such as how he should probably not ask for another refill. Just to spite the universe, Grantaire tipped his cup back for a deep swig. 

It felt odd having nothing else to do with the evening. Normally, he would take up residence in the backroom, not the front parlor. The Les Amis de l’ABC would congregate there, but everyone had picked up and left for the airports as soon as finals concluded. Some had family to come home to, and the rest chose to spend the holidays with each other. Even for someone as bitter as Grantaire, the memory of Courfeyrac taping a mistletoe sprig to Combeferre’s forehead the week prior and promptly making their departure hand-in-hand had Grantaire smiling fondly. 

Joly and Bossuet were with Musichetta’s family, Marius and Cosette were at Mr. Valjean’s mansion, Jehan said something about taking a poetry pilgrimage alone in the mountains, Eponine took Gavroche to visit Azelma at graduate school, and Feuilly said he was doing customer service work at two department stores. Bahorel just snorted and practically dragged his boyfriend into his car for a two-week backpacking trip as soon as the meeting adjourned that evening. As for Enjolras, Grantaire was frustratingly misinformed. Grantaire had become rather skilled at knowing Enjolras’ whereabouts, but Enjolras never said anything during the meetings, and Grantaire’s trusted source on all things Enjolras (read: Courfeyrac) had disappeared with the rest of the social justice group. 

From his vantage point at the bar, Grantaire could see that their room was filled with an unfamiliar crowd. Evidently, the tourists didn’t know as well as the regulars that the space was ABC territory. The backroom was a sacred place, and the walls could tell years of his friends’ lives if one deigned to look closely: a small pen scribble on the door frame, “Courfeyrac likes C-”, horribly defaced. Fragments of Jehan’s poetry marked the tables from when paper was unavailable. Local news articles about rallies from years past were pinned proudly by Enjolras’ seat. The cracks in the floorboards still had rainbow glitter wedged between panels from Feuilly’s birthday party. 

It felt odd to see strangers occupy their space from afar. Grantaire knew they had every right to be there, and made an acquaintance with the common room every day since the final meeting on Monday. That was three days ago. Grantaire turned his gaze to the window, to those hurrying bundled forms, every so often burdened with luggages.

It was snowing, and though the Musain was heated well, Grantaire knew it was bitterly cold on the streets. Thankfully, the bar was well away from the door, and the phantoms of wind curling through the open door didn’t reach him as customers bustled in and out of the pub.

Drinking had made Grantaire slow, and he almost missed the blonde curls hidden under a soft-looking wool cap when another person came through the threshold. Grantaire furrowed his brow and sat up sharply to take stock of the man-- tall, willowy, and with good posture. Liquid spirits emboldened Grantaire, and he slid gracelessly off the bar stool to approach Enjolras. Enjolras, for one, didn’t spare the backroom a glance and made himself comfortable on one of the leather couches nearest to the door. 

Enjolras hadn’t seen Grantaire, for he was already scrutinizing an open laptop by the time Grantaire slipped into the vacant cushion beside him on the couch. Grantaire knew it was a masochistic move, and mentally braced himself for a verbal barrage when Enjolras startled and blinked at Grantaire rapidly, in succession. What Grantaire didn’t expect was the quiet “Hello,” and then the sound of Enjolras resuming to type into his laptop. 

Grantaire wasn’t used to this calm, relaxed Enjolras, with his cheeks still red from being outside and his ponytail mussed from the hat, now discarded in his lap. And, like all things Grantaire wasn’t used to, he reacted with inane comments like, “Arguing with conservatives over social media doesn’t really qualify as spreading the holiday cheer, Enjolras. When will you ever learn to quit?”

Enjolras abruptly stopped typing, and Grantaire inwardly chided himself for breaking the peace. Welling up with anxiety, he promptly made the situation even worse by not knowing how to shut up; “I mean, you should really take it easy once in awhile, you know? Look, everyone should be home with their families for Christmas, or Hanukkah, or whatever the hell you celebrate. Fuck, you’re so stressed all the time, I wish I could, I mean-” Grantaire’s heart was racing, he was swiftly wandering into dangerous territory.

“Do you want me to get you some coffee, or something?” Grantaire squeaked rather hysterically, and prayed that Enjolras wouldn’t question it.

“I don’t celebrate any of the holidays during this time of the year. They’re constructs of the big corporations to distract the middle class from the real issues, and not to mention-” Enjolras groaned and rubbed his temples in resignation. In the quiet, innocent voice from earlier, Enjolras added, “Yeah, I’d love some coffee. Thank you.” 

Grantaire was struck by how tired Enjolras sounded, and got up to order coffee before his big mouth could ruin the mood again. When Enjolras started palming for his wallet, Grantaire shook his head and retrieved his own cash from his jeans pocket. 

It took a while to get coffee, with the line so long. Everyone within two blocks seemed to flock to the Musain to warm their fingers around a hot cup. Grantaire welcomed the delay, and took the time to analyze the situation. Enjolras was still in the city, and wasn’t planning on doing anything but work for the next two weeks. The thought saddened Grantaire a little, for such a young and beautiful creature to tie himself to his commitments without any room for leisure. 

Ever the inverse of Enjolras, Grantaire tied himself to leisure, and never allowed himself to commit. However, Grantaire secretly enjoyed breaking in his nature. He could not help but believe in Enjolras, all Greco-Roman dignity and fiery convictions; to believe in Enjolras was more addicting than any worldly pleasures. Grantaire mused over the way the back of Enjolras’ neck curved slightly to the side, his head downcast to the laptop screen. Grantaire imagined he looked like the marble statues one might find in Rome’s great museums. Enjolras echoed from history of great heros and mythic gods, except this one did all sorts of strange mortal things like drink his coffee black and brush a loose curl out of his eyes every so often.

Grantaire checked his watch, and decided he was long past the socially acceptable amount of time to ogle someone from the counter, two half-cooled cups of coffee in hand. He felt suddenly sober, which normally would make Grantaire spike his coffee with a shot or two. Instead, Grantaire felt pleasantly alert, with no desire for alcohol. In a way that Grantaire hoped was casual, he slid back beside Enjolras and hovered the tall cardboard cup labelled “black” over Enjolras’s right hand. Enjolras smiled stiffly and grabbed the cup. 

“Hey, so…” Grantaire groaned at the lame starter and desperately tried to think of conversation topics that wouldn’t make Enjolras mad. The list was pitifully meager, but it was too late to back out because Enjolras had stopping working to look at him. Those pure, severe eyes, seemed to drill holes through Grantaire’s skull. With effort, Grantaire managed not to shy away from the stare, and cleared his throat. 

“So you don’t celebrate any of the holidays, huh? I can’t say I fancy them either. Everyone who counts as family to me all go on vacation with each other, it seems. It’s weird not seeing you all every day.” He waved a noncommittal hand in the direction of the backroom. He still had Enjolras’ full attention, he realized. Normally, this would be the moment when Enjolras politely-- or not so politely, as was often the case-- excused himself to speak with Combeferre about new legislation working its way into the polls or to Feuilly about local worker unions that might support the Les Amis de l’ABC’s goals. Now, no one was here to pull Enjolras aside, but surely whatever article the blond was writing would be more appealing than a conversation with _Grantaire_. At the very least, he expected Enjolras to pick up on Grantaire’s initial snide retorts and they would be at each other's throats again. That was their normal. How was Grantaire supposed to behave around this version of Enjolras?

Without realizing, Grantaire’s chain of thought rendered him silent, but Enjolras filled in the void before Grantaire could start tripping over himself. 

“I feel the same way. About family, I mean,” Enjolras sounded like he was choosing his words carefully “you and the others are my family. I can write articles for the paper or letters to politicians and make these small steps towards change, but none of it means anything if I don’t have people to fight for.” Enjolras suddenly looked away and hid his face behind his coffee again, but Grantaire did not notice because a familiar cold knot was twitching in his stomach; the knowledge that Enjolras didn’t count Grantaire as one of his someones to fight for was already an unspoken agreement, in Grantaire’s mind. 

The conversation died from there, with Enjolras awkwardly reopening his laptop and resumed typing with renewed vigor. Grantaire sat back and watched him, uncaring of the consequences. When he got bored of counting the faint freckles sweeping Enjolras’ nose, Grantaire toyed with the thought of which Roman hero Enjolras may have incarnated from. As wide and disjointed his interests were, Grantaire indulged a small pride in his knowledge of classical history. Orestes, perhaps, or Achilles? Grantaire entertained parallels between Enjolras and all the great heroes from legend, but Grantaire concluded that Enjolras’ true glory could only be equaled by the immortal, and comfortably decided that Enjolras must be an Apollo. 

What would Apollo have been doing during this time of year, so many centuries ago? Grantaire’s mind helpfully provided that the Romans celebrated Saturnalia, in some ways similar to Christmas in its traditions of gift-giving and feasting. Taking place between December seventeenth and December twenty-third, the social hierarchy in Rome would reverse, and the rich men would treat their workers to public festivals. Even slaves and women enjoyed some of these benefits, able to make mockeries of their masters without punishment. It seemed fitting that Enjolras would appreciate the tradition. “Saturnalia” was a tribute to Saturn, or Zeus, but Grantaire couldn’t help but wonder…

Grantaire sat up from the back of the couch, and too swiftly because Enjolras yelped and barely caught the laptop from tipping off his lap. Grantaire winced at himself, but he had an idea. The idea would probably blow up in his face, but Grantaire could live with another reason to not-try-anything-ever if things went south. However, until he messed it up, Grantaire was confident that this was one of his rare “Good Ideas”. 

Leaning towards Enjolras mischievously, Grantaire couldn’t help the excitement coming through his tone, “What do you say, dear leader, that we make a holiday of our own?” Some god was smiling on Grantaire apparently, because Enjolras’ grimace of confusion didn’t rattle Grantaire’s nerves, and he pressed the advantage, “We took the same classical studies course in high school correct?” 

Neither of them could forget the heated debate that rose from the reading of Allegory of the Cave, which ended with a forced seating change to place the cynic and the blond firmly on opposite sides on the room for the rest of the year. They cooperatively protested this by yelling their points even louder, but Grantaire still missed sitting behind Enjolras because of the golden hairs that would fall upon Grantaire’s desk every so often. Grantaire liked to pick them up and twine the threads through his own fingers. Enjolras’ hair had been shorter then, neatly curling just above his ears. It was almost a year from that particular memory before Enjolras decided to start growing it out. Ever since Enjolras’ hair grew long enough to draw into a low ponytail, Grantaire wondered what it might feel like in his hands for real.

At the moment, Grantaire was too excited to dwell on these memories. Barely a heartbeat after Grantaire asked his question, Enjolras nodded for him to continue. 

“Okay, so I was just thinking, what if we decided not to be miserable the next two weeks and celebrate Saturnalia?” Enjolras opened his mouth to retort, but Grantaire was faster, “Not to celebrate that the right to equal treatment was temporary and a privilege, but hey, who says modern-day Christmas is anything like it was two-hundred years ago? I may not believe the world is getting any better in our lifetimes, but I say we rejoice in today’s humanity.” 

Grantaire and Enjolras both made agreeable noises and Grantaire couldn’t believe it because Enjolras was actually smiling now like he was proud of Grantaire. 

If Grantaire was dreaming, he was going to murder whoever woke him up. 

“I think I like the sound of this, Grantaire. I accept. Hey, doesn’t it start today? Okay, um,” Enjolras slapped his laptop shut and shrugged on his jacket. It was a beautiful red thing that was the same fabric as his cap-- Enjolras always looked good in red. “I wasn’t really getting any work done anyway. How do we start?”

Grantaire’s grin stretched even wider without his permission. “I think I like the sound of feasting right now. Let’s get dinner, I know a place.”

In truth, Grantaire did not know a place, but set his sights on the nearest decent-looking Indian restaurant and started walking. There was a moment of self-doubt when he wondered if it was okay to walk next to Enjolras, but the red Enjolras-shaped bundle stepped into stride beside Grantaire on his own accord. It was colder outside than Grantaire remembered, with the sun having fallen well below the horizon, and Grantaire wrung his bare hands uncomfortably. The motion must have annoyed Enjolras, because he was looking at Grantaire’s hands with an unreadable scowl. Grantaire locked his wrists to his sides until they reached the restaurant.

Dinner was utterly pathetic, and it turned out that Enjolras couldn’t stomach the spiciness of literally anything on the menu. The restaurant staff finally got his order right after two separate attempts in which they added double the pepper instead of the requested none at all. For the sake of efficiency, Grantaire got a head start on sulking in self-depreciation at his poor discretion. All the bridges he might have built between himself and Enjolras were crashing down in an act of unfortunate restaurant choice. How could he have been so stupid? 

Enjolras wasn’t complaining, oddly, and even sported a small content smile throughout the duration of the evening; he even bothered to laugh at Grantaire’s stupid jokes, and Grantaire knew it was all a facade, because the food was disappointing and there was no way Grantaire’s charming company could take credit for it. Grantaire grew more and more convinced with this conclusion every time Enjolras too-quickly averted his eyes they locked with Grantaire’s. Enjolras practically radiated discomfort, and though they chatted amicably, Grantaire convinced himself that it was out of pity. 

They parted ways after dinner, and Grantaire felt the icy knot in his gut lurch as Enjolras disappeared into the night. His hands were raw and stinging from the cold, but didn’t bother to notice.

One by one, Grantaire popped his bubbles of hope. Even if dinner had gone better, there was no guarantee Enjolras would‘ve allowed a repeat occasion, Grantaire told himself. Enjolras had shown nothing but disdain for Grantaire before that day. Enjolras was way out of his league. Enjolras needed someone who wouldn’t drag him down with a drinking problem and an ugly childhood. In two weeks, everyone would come home and Grantaire would once more be a burden to Enjolras’ precious causes. 

Small and alone in his too-narrow bed, Grantaire curled up around his pillow and pleaded for a dreamless sleep to bring him peace. 

\---

Grantaire’s feet carried him back to the Musain the next morning, his head swimming with an uncomfortable combination of restlessness and exhaustion. The barista looked sympathetic when he asked for a bottle of vodka at nine-o-clock in the morning. He told her to keep the change and sighed gratefully at the sound of glass clinking onto the bar counter in front of him. However, Grantaire wasn’t able to take a drink before a hand on his shoulder whirled him around. 

Of course Enjolras was standing there, with some box under the arm currently not on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire could handle Enjolras’ fury, or maybe even his pity, but Grantaire couldn’t bear to see the concern etched into Enjolras’ furrowed brow. Grantaire looked away sharply. 

“Grantaire, what’s wrong? Jesus, did something happen?” Enjolras wasn’t supposed to be all domestic and concerned with Grantaire. It was too close to what he wanted-- what he had daydreamed about with Enjolras for over ten years. 

“I have a drinking problem, _Enjolras_. You aren’t obligated to comfort me about it.” Grantaire spat, eyes still evasive, “I know you don’t think of us as friends so please spare me the dignity of stopping this before I screw up more than I already have, because it’s my fault. It always is. I’m just an ugly bitter creep hiding in your shadow.” Grantaire was shaking, and sunk into himself protectively. He hoped Enjolras would just leave before he started crying. 

“We need to talk. Now. Put the bottle down.” Enjolras’ stern tone made Grantaire flinch, as if struck. Time seemed to slow down mercilessly as Enjolras guided Grantaire into an empty bathroom and locked the door. It was one of those bathrooms that only consisted of one room, and nobody else would come in. Grantaire felt like he was going to throw up. The icy knot had webbed its way around his entire chest and was choking him from the inside out.

“Grantaire, tell me what’s going on.” Grantaire didn’t respond. 

“ _Grantaire_ ,”

“It was a stupid suggestion, yesterday. I made a fool of myself by picking that awful restaurant and I distracted you from your work and wasted you evening. I won’t hold it against you if you never want to do that with me again. Ever.” His voice was shaking, and even someone as socially oblivious as Enjolras would be able to tell that Grantaire dreaded the notion. 

“Grantaire, did you really think I was going to sever our friendship because of a poor experience with a new restaurant?” Enjolras sounded like he was trying to stifle laughter, which Grantaire felt was entirely inappropriate, given the situation. 

“We’re not friends!” Grantaire barked. “You’ve made your opinion of my crystal clear in the past.” Grantaire sadistically revelled in the cruel remark. Enjolras paled, looking stung and vulnerable. 

“I was just hoping we could fix things between us. I liked the part of you I saw yesterday. I-...I really like dinner. Just because we argue about some things doesn’t mean we can’t try again. I’ve been wanting to tell you for months now but I have no idea what I’m doing. And I had never been on a date before last night and I thought it was just really nice?” The last part was posed as a question and it was obvious that Enjolras was thoroughly freaking out now, his hands worrying the bottom of his coat. 

“You thought that was a date?” Grantaire’s breath was short, and it was barely above a whisper, but Enjolras nodded. 

“I wanted to do it again today. Um, and I got you a Saturnalia gift. I mean, I can just go.” Grantaire felt seized with guilt. Of course Enjolras thought that was a date. He was smiling and talking about non-Enjolras-y things and they were having dinner together. Grantaire fancied himself an expert on Enjolras, and Enjolras didn’t do dating. Enjolras never went out to dinner with people outside the pretense of business. Grantaire had been so wrapped up in his own self-pity to even realize what a huge first it was for Enjolras. Now Enjolras was smaller than Grantaire had ever seen him, hurting and ashamed.

“Hey, let me take you on a real date, Enjolras. Fuck, I’m such an idiot. I’d really like to give this a chance, yeah? I got ahead of myself yesterday.” Grantaire chuckled in spite of himself, then, “I didn’t get you anything. I kinda...you know,” He pointed at the door and grimaced. Enjolras seemed to relax, nevertheless.

“It’s fine. We’re breaking traditions, right? I still want you to have this, though.” He thrust the box into Grantaire’s arms. Curious, Grantaire left the bathroom with Enjolras at his heels and opened up the box on the nearest table. Inside, he found two leathery green gloves, lined on the inside with some kind of fur that was warm and softer than silk. 

“You looked so uncomfortable without gloves on yesterday. I haven’t seen you wear any before, and I just-” 

“They’re wonderful,” Grantaire insisted, and sighed at the way the fur slid over his fingers when he tried them on. He doesn’t want to think about the last time someone gave him such a nice gift. 

Grantaire bought Enjolras new boots later that day, despite assurances that Grantaire didn’t really need to get him a present. Grantaire only snorted and paid for the boots. They did other things too in the next day, and the next. They quickly became part of the faceless masses crowding the streets, hurrying along snow-wetted sidewalks. But it still felt special, because they were defying the socially accepted holidays and making up their own. Time flew by and they created and destroyed new traditions with bright laughter and hot cocoa. 

\--

On day five of Saturnalia, Enjolras took Grantaire out to breakfast at some hipster cupcake store that Enjolras heard was “well-sourced” but turned out to be gluten-free. Grantaire was impressed by Enjolras’ hidden talent to order cupcakes called “satin river vanilla joycake” with a straight face. 

At some point over finishing their cupcakes, Enjolras started asking about Grantaire’s dancing background. Grantaire’s parents vehemently opposed a fine arts career, hence his decision to take painting, sculpting, singing, and ballet at university. Enjolras hummed as Grantaire described the ballet studios he attended around Paris, rambling off into specifics about his style. 

Everyone knew that Enjolras wasn’t artistically inclined, but Grantaire was still shocked to learn that Enjolras never even learned how to waltz. An hour later found them wrapped in ballroom music crackling from Grantaire’s smartphone. The empty alley off a side road was spacious enough to walk Enjolras through the steps of a basic waltz. 

Enjolras was tense at first, his eyes transfixed to their feet and his forehead scrunched up in concentration. Soon enough though, those lines smoothed out and Enjolras could keep his eyes up for longer, a coy little smile crooking his lips. Grantaire hugged his waist closer.

They were starting to realize that this, that they, could work.

\--

Day seven was the twenty-third of December, and technically the last day of Saturnalia, but Enjolras was too tired to go to the Louvre as planned, and texted Grantaire that he was coming over. Grantaire practically catapulted out of bed to hide all the dirty clothes and scattered paintings from around his flat. For once, there wasn’t a single bottle of spirits in sight. Grantaire hadn’t needed a drink since he walked away from the vodka bottle six days earlier at the Musain.

The doorbell chimed far too soon and Grantaire groaned at the pink “juicy” sweatpants he was still wearing. It was a gift from Eponine, for pity’s sake! Grantaire sheepishly answered the doorbell to find Enjolras in a similar state of disarray, complete with fluffy black slippers. Grantaire fondly watched his boyfriend (was he allowed to use that word?) hurry inside out of the cold. 

“Hey, do you have ‘Lord of the Rings?’” Enjolras ventured.

“Oh yeah, only the extended addition and all the books,” Grantaire replied, and chuckled at the way Enjolras’ eyes bulged into saucers. 

They spent the day on Grantaire’s shabby couch watching “Lord of the Rings”, except they weren’t really watching as much as they were debating the intricacies of Middle Earth politics. Old instincts are hard to ignore, and Grantaire feared that Enjolras might lash out at any slight disagreement, but it never came. 

When it was well into the night and they still hadn’t watched half of _Return of the King_ , Enjolras carefully asked if he could stay the night. Grantaire merely nodded in consent and shifted to accommodate him. They lay with their heads on opposite ends of the couch, their feet tangling together a little in the middle. The next morning Grantaire would have sufficient opportunity to do a victory dance about this, but contentment and warmth were the only things he felt at the time; only aware of the television flickering, the speakers murmuring, and Apollo lying just beyond his ankles. Something clicked in Grantaire then, but he could think what it was before he was fast asleep.

\--

December twenty-third was definitely not the last day of Saturnalia, as they unanimously agreed the next morning. Enjolras rose early with the staunch intent of making coffee, but Grantaire spent so much time at the Musain that he never bothered to get his own coffee machine. Enjolras made a face of horror that Grantaire suspected wasn’t entirely faked. They elected to go to the Musain as soon as possible.

Grantaire offered to lend him a change of clothes, but Enjolras casually said that he brought his own. Grantaire cocked and eyebrow but said nothing. Grantaire remembered to do his victory dance as Enjolras changed in the bathroom. Soon enough, they had cast out onto the street. Still bleary and craving coffee, they didn’t say anything walking over. It was a comfortable silence, and it gave Grantaire a moment to reflect.

Something felt different about Enjolras, or at least, how Grantaire felt about Enjolras. Somehow, just walking next to the blond felt overwhelming closer than before. Grantaire didn’t understand, because nothing between them had changed since yesterday. Enjolras had slept on his couch, but they didn’t go any further than that, and they didn’t want to. Grantaire didn’t like being unsure of his feelings, but this new one was not unpleasant. Rather, Grantaire felt a calmness such that he had not enjoyed for many years. 

The feeling stayed with Grantaire as the days rolled by. It made his heart stutter harder whenever Enjolras tried something new with him, and when Grantaire caught Enjolras staring fondly from the corner of his eye. 

They continued to break traditions, such as eating ice cream during the coldest blizzard of the month, and finishing the chalky bread of their gluten-free cupcakes before diving into the frosting. Grantaire realized sometime through all this that he hadn’t thought of calling Enjolras “Apollo” since the night he stayed over. A sudden insight made him stop in his tracks, which was unfortunate because he had been leading Enjolras along across an ice skating rink, and Enjolras crashed into him with a squawk. 

When they picked themselves off the ice, they slid to the side of the rink to catch their breath. Enjolras looked mildly annoyed and berated Grantaire for getting distracted. 

“Yeah, sorry, I just realized how you’re not, like, high and mighty anymore or anything.” It was true. Grantaire placed Enjolras on a gilded pedestal the moment he saw him, high above and far from Grantaire’s reach. The night on the couch, that pedestal disappeared and Enjolras was right there on earth, and he was no longer Apollo. Enjolras, in fact, was a young man; Grantaire felt that warm feeling roar up in his chest at the thought. Grantaire was now looking at Enjolras with a mix of awe and delight. Enjolras’, for one, looked confused.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Enjolras said, not unkindly.

“Ah,” Grantaire made a nervous laugh “that sounded a lot better in my head. Well I guess for so many years I looked at you and thought ‘Wow, he’s so stunning and so out of my league’, like you were some god that couldn’t do cute things like learn Elvish or steal Courfeyrac’s Disneyland t-shirts.” As a point, Grantaire rubbed his thumb into the top of Mickey Mouse’s head, which was barely visible under Enjolras’ scarf. That sweet warm feeling was throbbing in his chest again. 

“First of all, I am not fluent in Elvish,” Enjolras paused, then, “And second...Years?” 

Grantaire nodded, unashamed, and Enjolras slid forward on his skates to hug Grantaire tightly. They stayed like that for an eternity, it seemed, but Enjolras made no move to let go and Grantaire hugged him back just as firmly, one hand tangled into that lush, blond hair. Only a few days ago, Grantaire was allowed to touch that hair, and if a single one of those threads felt good wrapped around his fingers, as it did during high school, then to feel hundreds of them slipping over his palm was another level of luxury entirely. After so much bad blood between them...

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said, quiet in volume yet thunderous in its sincerity. 

“I know,” was all Grantaire could say, because waving the apology was out of the question. Nothing is more terrible than living in love, when the person you worship despises all parts of your being. Too young, Grantaire had fallen in love, and every one of Enjolras’ abusive tirades ripped a little out of Grantaire every day. Another year, and there might not have been anything of Grantaire left to save. 

“I’m sorry too,” Grantaire said, after a time, in a tone that permitted no argument. He hugged Enjolras tighter, and Enjolras nodded, because Grantaire was guilty of spitting his own venom as well.

When they finally drew apart, they regarded the dried tear tracks on each others cheeks, and put the past behind them. 

“Grantaire, you’re my boyfriend, right?” 

“I was wondering when you’d ask.” Grantaire was smiling so hard his cheeks cramped, and Enjolras was smiling again too. _"I love you,"_ Grantaire thought, and as much as he wanted to say it out loud, it was too soon. He rolled the words over in his mind again, privately savoring them. It was enough to wait until the time was right.

They skated for a while longer, because Grantaire had some trick moves and he liked impressing Enjolras. They shared a hot fudge sundae after leaving the rink, because it was the thirteenth day of Saturnalia, and they were celebrating.

\--

The two days that followed the ice rink were the happiest of Grantaire’s life, and the fifteenth day of Saturnalia was also New Years’ Eve. Already, all their friends were driving or flying towards Paris for their annual New Year's’ Eve party at the Musain. Enjolras promised nothing would change between them, but Grantaire was unsure what their friends’ reactions would be. They had been focusing on nursing their new relationship and had completely forgotten to tell the others. Grantaire and Enjolras weren’t ashamed of telling everyone, but they hadn’t even kissed yet and Courfeyrac was going to assume things. 

Cosette somehow convinced everyone to attend the party every year, and that year was no exception as everyone piled into the backroom. The Amis were buzzing around the room, chatting and helping throw glitter everywhere, as per Courfeyrac’s request. Grantaire hadn’t realized how much he missed his friends and was quick to greet the people trickling in from the airport or from their road trips. Jehan was waxing poetics, pun intended, about the beautiful natural wonders of the French country, and Feuilly looked positively smug while boasting his victory in a polar bear swim contest against Bahorel. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were very much the same, updating Enjolras with stat reports and new media opportunities for the activist group. Still, no one missed Combeferre’s glazed puppy eyes when Courfeyrac started singing along to Katy Perry. 

Talking with everyone else forced Enjolras and Grantaire apart most of the evening, and too soon everyone started eyeing the television for the New Year’s countdown. With a minute left, all went quiet as the couples found each other, the single Amis cheering on in their seats. Champagne flutes shot up across the room. Enjolras and Grantaire made eye contact from opposite ends of the floor, and nobody noticed when they took hands by the window and listened along. 

“Ten, nine, eight, seven-”

“Happy Saturnalia Enjolras,” Grantaire grinned, and squeezed Enjolras’ hand.

“Six, five, four, three-”

“Happy Saturnalia Grantaire,” And Enjolras was also smiling as he leaned in closer and sealed their lips.

“Two, one, Happy New Year!” The television roared and the Amis were all whooping and embracing their partners. Of course, Courfeyrac was the first to notice that Enjolras and Grantaire doing the same. 

A very Courfeyrac-sounding shriek drew everyone’s attention “What?! Monsieur Combferre, did you hear about this? You know, honesty is the most important part of our relationship and you signed the contract promising to tell me whenever our best friends hook up.” The very contract had stayed pinned next to the calendar since that fateful night of truth or dare. Combeferre pled innocent, and Enjolras insisted that Grantaire and himself came together completely without a third-party influence. Courfeyrac flung himself into Combeferre’s arms and sang, “‘Ferre, it’s a Christmas miracle!” 

Grantaire chose that moment to break the kiss again, smiling at Enjolras. “I’d say it’s more of a Saturnalia miracle, Courf.” 

“Oh this is so unfair,” Courfeyrac whined “You guys owe me fries and a story. It’d better be one of those cute Christmas romances because it was about time you two got your feelings screwed on right.”

“Just how long have you seen this coming?” Enjolras said warily.

Joly scoffed from somewhere behind Courfeyrac. “Like three years. We actually all owe Combeferre twenty euros.” He said regretfully. 

Everyone laughed and gossipped about the unlikely couple, cashing in their twenty euros to Combeferre. Meanwhile, Combeferre patted Enjolras’ shoulder comfortingly and returned to his civic duty of keeping Courfeyrac distracted. 

Enjolras and Grantaire hadn’t looked up from each other. In a low voice meant just for Grantaire, Enjolras whispered, “I suppose we are a bit of a Saturnalia miracle. By the way, our holiday is officially extended to a year-round tradition, effective immediately.” 

Grantaire hooked a finger under Enjolras’ chin and dipped down to peck him on the nose. Then, because he was greedy, Grantaire nuzzled his face into that exquisite blond hair, now flecked with glitter and tousled from dancing. He was so, so, profoundly drunk, and he hadn’t even tasted a drink in two weeks. The thought made him want to giggle, or kiss again. He did a bit of both. 

“Yeah, I think I could manage that.” 

\--

The truth is that the road through wonderland goes on forever. After all, love that is pure is impervious to the passage of time and distance. Those who walk the road walk the path of the stars. Enjolras and Grantaire were born with matching stepping stones, and it just took them a while to click into place. After the first two stones, they laid new ones every day. One stone may be as simple as reaching for each other’s fingers in the dark, and other stones more profound, like the first “I love you” uttered aloud. These stones created a road whirling out into the heavens, like ribbon yielding to the wind. 

There are people like Enjolras and Grantaire from every age of humankind. Too often, they are dragged away to a shared tomb before they have the chance to discover the truth: they are born to be together as much as they are born to change the world. When people like Enjolras and Grantaire face death, the press of hands and a smile promises thousands of stepping stones in another time, another life, with the same love to fight for.


End file.
